Chapter 7 Beauty is Pain
Chapter seven
Beauty is Pain
By the time Snow White turned eighteen, the castle had completely forgotten how to glitter. But it remembered—for one night.
For the first time in a long while, the great hall thrummed with preparation.
Servants scurried up and down ladders to hang fresh banners.
Chandeliers were lowered on creaking ropes so maids could polish each candle cup until it shone.
Musicians tested strings and reeds in a corner, their hesitant notes echoing off the vaulted ceiling.
She often listened to servants and maids as they gossiped about the guest list, hoping she would hear of a king and his son, of a prince, any clues she could gather.
She wanted to ask her mother, but was never able to muster the courage.
From the narrow window of her tower room, Snow White watched the courtyard bloom with color: lords and ladies arriving in carriages, their cloaks flashing jewel tones against the cobbles; grooms leading unfamiliar horses to the stables; guards in dress livery relieving the weary men from the walls.
“Look at them, Grimm,” she said, pressing her forehead against the glass.
Her breath fogged a circle through which the world appeared softer, dreamlike.
“It’s like the old days. Before.” Down below, she could just make out the black shape of her stallion’s back as he paced his stall, unsettled by the influx of strange horses. “I miss you,” she whispered.
Two years ago was the best and worst day of Snow White’s life.
She had met the boy of her dreams. His hair, his eyes, his touch, everything about him made her swoon, yet their encounter was so brief.
Liora had chastised Snow White for the meeting, claiming the boy was a stranger and she could have been hurt.
“You’re too naive,” “think of your father,” “how can I keep you safe?” and other declarations hurled at her by her mother, while Snow White tried unsuccessfully to tell her mother of the prince and their instant connection.
Liora’s mind had already been made up. Under the guise of protection, Liora told Snow White she was no longer allowed to leave her tower.
That meant no roaming the castle, no rides outside with Hunter’s permission, no rides at all.
She wasn’t allowed in the stables at all.
Snow White cried and begged her mother, tugging at her dress as she wept on the floor like a child, but it was no use.
She hadn’t seen Grimm, except in stolen glances from her window, in two long years.
Her heartbreak was immense that day. She wondered if heartbreak was all she would ever know.
Each time she felt content it was met with a shattering of herself, of a loss so unimaginable.
The last two years were full of isolation—she had no friends, and no means to visit them even if she had.
Besides brief lectures from her mother at meals or short exchanges with Hunter as she passed in the hallway on the way to the library at the very top of the tower, she rarely interacted with another being at all.
She was desperate for some attention, for someone to talk to, for someone to be near.
She had all but forgotten what it felt like to have the warmth of her father’s love surround her in a blanket of security.
But tonight was the ball. Tonight things were different.
Snow White was elated at the thought of all the guests.
I can’t wait to talk to someone, anyone.
I’ll sway to the music, I’ll laugh, and maybe someone will ask me to dance.
With still hours before the ball, she was eager to get ready and put on a dress instead of the simple rags she’d become so accustomed to.
She caught sight of herself in her broken wall mirror—one of the few that had escaped Liora’s purge because it was so broken it barely reflected.
Her chopped hair, grown out now to just brush the tops of her shoulders, framed her face in uneven layers.
No amount of smoothing ever tamed it. Still, even in the distorted glass, anyone could see what the mirror in Liora’s chamber had known for some time: whatever the queen tried, Snow White’s beauty was ripening.
She thought of a ball she’d read about in one of her favorite stories: a girl in a dress made from her dead mother’s curtain dancing under a crystal chandelier, the prince besotted at first sight. “Ridiculous,” she told her reflection, even as her heart whispered, maybe.
Her fingers went to the cord around her neck as if by habit.
The falcon pendant lay warm against her sternum where it always rested, hidden under her clothes.
She closed her hand around it and, just for a heartbeat, let herself imagine what it would be like if he walked through the great doors tonight.
It had been two years. Two long, gray years of chores and curfews and the constant, haunting knowledge of her mother’s gaze.
Two years of tracing the edge of the token whenever she felt too small, too invisible, reminding herself that once, someone had seen her.
“Fool,” she whispered, though without heat. “You’re still a fool.”
“Mirror, soul of silver and glass, who in this land shall I never surpass?” Entranced, Liora repeated her ritual.
As she stood naked and oiled in front of her mirror, she noticed an odd sensation—nerves?
She had seen her daughter’s beauty growing and noticed her changing body over the past few years.
When Snow White smiled Liora felt a pang of jealousy wash over her.
The mirror morphed with a familiar ripple, and for the first time since she’d acquired it from an old peddler in her mother’s village, did not show Liora her reflection.
Instead, it showed the image of Snow White—naked in the bath, skin silky and firm, black hair stringy and wet, breasts perky and sudsy with soap, nipples resting just below the surface of the water, cheeks flushed with warmth, and lips a natural deep crimson.
Liora was taken aback at the sight. Almost in horror.
She thought it must be a mistake. She asked the mirror again, and again the mirror showed her daughter getting ready for the ball.
Liora suddenly regretted everything—regretted telling her she could attend the ball, regretted allowing her to the stables the day the king and prince visited, regretted allowing any freedoms, regretted having a daughter at all.
Liora was jealous, not only of her daughter’s beauty, but of her purity.
Snow White was an effortless, innocent beauty, but Liora had taken a more twisted path to the throne.
Each time Liora’s power was threatened she refocused and did what was necessary to maintain her superiority, and each time, over time, she had allowed Snow White’s kindness and charm soften her again.
But not this time. The betrayal of her mirror was the most jarring moment Liora had ever experienced. Never again. Never again will anyone, anything threaten Liora’s beauty, her power. She knew what must be done.
A knock sounded at her chamber door.
“Snow White,” came Liora’s voice.
“Yes, Mother,” she called. “Come in.”
The queen swept in without waiting for permission.
She wore amethyst tonight. Not the deep crimson of her throne room gown, but a deeper shade, like the evening sky just before the dawn.
The fabric clung to her like water pouring over her curves.
Her hair was piled high, adorned with a crown of diamonds and gold.
Her face was a work of art—thick black lashes, lips painted bright apple-red.
Beside the queen, Snow White felt more like a girl playing dress-up. She was almost giddy with excitement, readying herself many hours too early for the evening’s agenda.
Liora’s gaze made a slow, measuring sweep down her daughter’s form.
“Well,” she said at last, “let’s find you something sensible to wear tonight, without holes.
” She moved toward the wardrobe, snatching a corset and slamming the door.
“Hurry up,” she insisted. “You move like the slow drip of honey.”
Snow White obeyed, stepping into the undergarment.
Liora said. “Turn around.”
Snow White hesitated. Something in her mother’s tone had an edge she didn’t recognize.
“Now,” Liora snapped.
Snow White turned, offering Liora her back.
The queen’s fingers closed around the laces at once. For a moment, the sensation was almost comforting—a faint echo of childhood mornings when Liora had brushed her hair and hummed while she plaited it.
“Lift your arms,” Liora said.
Snow White did. The corset shifted, sliding slightly lower as the queen tugged.
“At least you have posture,” Liora scoffed. “All that riding did something besides ruin your shoes.” She gave the laces a firm pull.
Snow White felt that same nauseated feeling when her mother first cut her hair. The corset bit her ribs. She winced. “That’s… tight,” she said.
“Corsets are meant to be tight,” Liora replied. “Beauty is pain.” She tugged again, harder this time. The whalebone dug into Snow White’s sides. Air fled her lungs.
“Mother,” Snow White gasped. “Wait—just—a little—”
“You want to look perfect tonight, don’t you?” Liora said, her voice smooth as cream. “All those noble eyes. All those fluttering hearts. You wouldn’t want to disappoint them.”
The laces pressed into Snow White’s torso as she grabbed at the doorframe for balance. “I don’t—” she tried. “I just want—”
“What you want,” Liora said, “is irrelevant. What you are is a reflection. A reflection of me. A reflection of the kingdom. You must act properly, like a lady, like a princess. Strong, proud. No nonsense tonight.”
She jerked the laces again. Snow White felt the world tilt. Dots of light danced at the edges of her vision.
“Stop,” she whispered. “Please. It’s too—”
“Too what?” Liora asked. “Too much like work? Too much like something you didn’t choose?” Her tone was pleasant, her hands, merciless.
Snow White’s chest burned. Her lungs felt bound, unable to draw in more than a sip of air at a time. The edges of the room blurred. “Mother,” she croaked.
Liora leaned in, lips near her ear. “You begged to be allowed at this ball,” she said softly. “You’ve pestered me for weeks. ‘Please, Mother, just this once. Let me have a dress, let me hear the music, let me be there with you.’”
Snow White’s fingers slipped on the frame. “I—just—wanted—”
“You wanted.” Liora repeated, as if tasting the word. “And wanting is dangerous. For you. For me.” Her hands moved faster, tugging the laces until the corset felt less like clothing and more like a cage.
Snow White’s knees buckled. She tried to suck in air; her chest refused to expand. Panic flared. Her heart hammered against the unyielding bone, desperate. “Mama,” she whispered, the word barely a sound.
Liora didn’t stop. “You think this ball is about finding me a husband,” she said. “You think some foreign king will win my affection and renew something in my life. You think I will soften, because he will take some of the burden from my shoulders.”
Snow White’s vision tunneled. The room shrank to the feeling of her mother’s hands at her back and the roaring in her ears.
“I will tell you a secret, my little snow-thing,” Liora spat. “Husbands are not saviors. They are dogs waiting to be commanded and are lured by the simplest bone.”
The words barely registered. Snow White’s fingers slipped from the doorframe.
She staggered forward. Liora gave the laces one final, brutal yank.
Something in Snow White’s chest screamed, then went eerily silent.
Her head spun. The floor rushed up to meet her.
She was vaguely cognizant of falling sideways onto the narrow bed.
The last thing she thought before darkness swallowed her was of her father’s comforting arms.
Liora stood over her, heart beating only a little faster than usual.
She watched the shallow rise and fall of Snow White’s chest, counting.
Satisfied that the girl still drew breath, she turned at once.
Her face, in the shattered reflection of the little mirror, was calm.
Not a hair out of place. She turned to the door.
The key in the outside lock glinted faintly.
Liora stepped out and turned it with a decisive click.
“There,” she said to the empty corridor.
“Safe and sound.” Safe from the visiting dukes and lords.
Safe from the mirror. Safe from any wandering, treacherous hearts she might catch.
Liora’s own heart did not ache at all as she walked away.